


Angelus Alas

by thebananahasspoken



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angels and Demons, Based off a comic, Blood, F/M, Imprisonment, Just a oneshot for now, Kidnapping, Mean sans, Rude boy, The seven deadly sins, Trauma, Underworld, Violence, and a poor wingless angel, angelic frisk, demonic sans, former dismemberment, he's a bit of a jerk, lets see how it goes shall we, more if its liked~, religious concepts, seven sins au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebananahasspoken/pseuds/thebananahasspoken
Summary: “You... y-you did this to me. You took my wings,” she rasped, her unused voice dry and scratching at her throat, and he looked down on her a single moment longer, tail sliding over the stones inlaid around his throne with the rough scratching of a death rattle, before he shrugged, totally unbothered, and returned to his meal.“yep.”
Relationships: Frisk/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 89





	Angelus Alas

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stolen (comic)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/658630) by Mercy-monster. 



> <3 oh shit boy, back at it again with the massive oneshots lmao
> 
> This particular tale is actually just a piece of fanart for a lovely artist called Mercy-monster, that made an amazing comic that I was just OBSESSED with. You can find the comic here (https://mercy-monster.tumblr.com/post/614768238180581376/stolen-dont-mind-me-just-trying-out-comic) or in the reference link. I may continue with it if it's liked well (and if Mercy wants me to lol). Anyways, enjoy~
> 
> My Tumblr (18+) for suggestions, fun stuff, skeletons, drawings, and more:
> 
> https://uhhbananafrappe.tumblr.com/

* * *

_Foolish girl..._

_Your heart of mercy is too easily moved._

_They cannot be saved._

_They are the Condemned._

_Monsters, every one, consumed by their wickedness._

_To try is folly, and will be your end._

_You will fail..._

_You will **fall**..._

_And there will be none there to save you._

* * *

Whispers...

Whispers dark as night.

Fell whispers, telling of perfidy and sacrilege, desolation and sin; ruinous whispers, boring into the soul and the body and the mind as the worms of a rotting corpse, gnawing to the bone and riddling all that was once whole with putrescence.

Whispers were all Frisk knew, in the shadow that had fallen about her, and she clung to them the same as she feared them, the same as she cast them away and fled into the shelter of memory, still pure, still good and untouched by the endless void.

What had become of her? She recalled so little, the shade that clung to her like the brambles of a thicket and the weight of unwilling slumber and the unending whispers bearing her down without qualm. She stirred in denial of it, reaching through the dark for the light that dwelt just out of her reach...

And the dark pushed back, drowning her again in the waters of choking despair, in the depths of a misery the like of which she had never known...

In the whispers that spoke of death and destruction and the end of the world.

Sleep pulled at the edges of her mind as she sank further into the abyss, oblivion threatening the flail of her limbs, her rejection of the chains binding her to the dark... it plucked at the staunchness of her resolve as one would stroke the strings of a harp, an irresistible melody swirling about her, luring her to consideration and a deadly moment of weakness.

To succumb would be simple as breathing... she could feel the knowledge of it in her soul, a peace and a calm settling on her mind to quiet her panic, the struggle of her resistance. To rest, to slumber, at harmony with the dark... a blessing that could not be denied.

So, so easy it would be.

The whispers told her so, and as the hand of night, coaxing and persuasive, weighted down the lids of her eyes, she nearly believed them, nearly gave in to the temptation of the darkness. It called to her in a voice sweet with honey and promise, the smoothness of silken fiber, the softness of the clouds at dawn.

Were it not for the warning in her heart, she would have slept for an eternity, and suspected nothing.

But the words of caution that she had departed the heavens with rang clear in her heart yet, a stark, cool reminder of where she was and why she had come (yes... yes, she had a purpose, she had a _calling;_ she couldn't rest, not until it was done), and it washed over her as a cool flush of water, shaking her from her repose and, again, forcing out her hand in the pressing night, reaching, reaching, for the light.

The darkness closed around her like a fist of iron, attempting to _force_ her beneath the waves of slumber, but she struggled with all the strength and persistence and faith she possessed (she could do it, she could rise above; she _had_ to, too much was at stake), and grasped for what lay beyond the shadow with all her might.

It was enough.

She surfaced with all the grace of a beaching creature of the deep, gasping for air and clutching at her chest. There was darkness all about her, an endless sea of noxious shadow, but it was a different sort of darkness than the kind she had escaped from within the confines of her own mind... this was nothing more than the clinging shade of a day passed, a darkened room enshrouded by night.

None of her own chambers on high had ever been so enclosed, claustrophobic as a prison cell and just as confining; the temple she had dwelt in was open to the star studded heavens, etched ivory columns clothed with climbing ivy allowing fresh, cool breezes to shift gauzy bed covers, to entwine with her flowing hair and the velveteen feathers of her wings-

Frisk jolted, with a gasp and a cry of despair, her eyes flying wide and her fingers, shaking and desperate, jumping to feel along her back, to grasp for her beloved wings, the evidence of her holiness. They exuded the light of the stars, a gift from the most high to the purest and most devout of their children, and the Seraphim guarded them as jealously as their own souls.

A horrifying memory, as dark and terrible as her worst nightmares, had accosted her, though, a memory of bloodstained snow and the breakage of bones, of the shatter of her divinity's light and the judging eyes of a murder of cawing crows... of pain beyond compare, and the cold, cruel brutality of a _**monster**_.

It had not spoken to her. It hadn't made a sound. It hadn't even had eyes, any gaze it bore enshrouded by a clinging veil, only bearing a sneering mouth, a crown of horns, and a grip of iron, and it had ripped her wings from her back without flinching, with claws colder even than it's demeanor.

Perhaps, though... perhaps it had just been a terrible dream...

Her fervently searching fingers found nothing as she felt across her shoulders, however, nothing but a rough spun shift (different, far different than the robe she had descended in; she had spun the silk for hers herself, she would know it anywhere) and the crisscrossing of a thick layer of bandages, bound about her chest just a little too tightly.

They... they were gone. Her wings... they were no more.

Strangely, she felt no pain from the surely grievous injury, but her mind had no consideration for such things. She felt numb, all the way to her bones, tears gathering on the lashes of her shadow blinded eyes and, within her, her soul ached in a way it never had before. She had never felt so hollow, so bereft of meaning; she had always known the gift of the light, from the time she was born. Even as she had walked the darkened wood below, lost and far more helpless than she ever could have known, it had shone within her soul in effervescence, and restored her courage and her hope and her determination without fail.

...until the moment it had been robbed of her, torn from her without care nor reproach.

Her head bowed low, her hands falling listless to the ground she knelt upon, her hair descending to veil her face. The tears gathered, painful and hot, on her thick lashes spilled down her cheeks, and in her misery, the emptiness and the cold dark of forcible mortality, she wept bitterly, sobbing in the closeness of her prison for the revelation of the path before her, should there remain one to even follow.

What was she to do, without her holiness, without her wings? She had come to save the Condemned, the fallen angels of long ago cast into the Underworld, from their unjust sentence, to free them of their long captivity and bring them back to the light of the stars, but before she had even had the chance to speak with just one of the lords of the seven circles she had been captured, stripped of her divine power and cast into shadow.

...it was as the elders Above had told her, when she had embarked on her quest only days past. They had told her the Demons and their thralls had no interest in being saved. They had recounted to her the legends of the war that had passed so very long ago, the supposedly just sentence the fallen had suffered, their transformation into twisted, monstrous beings, forever Condemned by their sins, and the tale she knew so well, of the First Angel and her guard of six that had gone below to redeem the fallen ones from their fate.

They had all disappeared. Slaughtered for their power, captured and turned to sin, or far worse; even the wisest of their brethren could not tell. None truly knew of their fates, as none had ever returned to the heavens, and none had dared to venture Below again since, in the hundreds of years that had passed. The Seraphim had turned their gazes away from the darkness that dwelt below, willfully blind to their suffering and the unfairness of the Condemned's lot.

If they did not see, it was not so. That was the way.

Frisk had not been able to bear it, though. She was born soft of heart and strong of spirit, and had watched the toils of the Condemned every day, shedding so many tears for their woe and their suffering that she could have filled an ocean. She had known it was her calling to save them, she could feel it in her bones, to her very soul, and had petitioned the Elders for so long that, in the end, they had been forced to let her go.

They had warned her of the foolishness of her errand, that she would fall the same as the Seven had before her, but she had not listened, sure of her course and determined to answer the call of her indomitable soul.

And they had been right.

So, she wept until her chest ached and no more tears would come, until the stone below the wadded blankets she had woken among bit into her knees. She wept until the cold gnawed at her and her empty belly complained for sustenance. She wept until she began to notice that the dark was not so pressing as before, the room she was cloistered within coming into shaded but clearer focus, lit by a dim finger of light creeping beneath what she could only assume was a door.

The room was small, as she had assumed, and furnished so barely and contritely that she was sure it was an insult to the worst prisons the Condemned could conjure, only the coarse blankets she lay on and a bucket crudely tossed into a corner there to keep her company. Manacles hung from the back wall, so thick and menacing that she shivered to look upon their shapes in the darkness... and then there was the door, standing tall in the otherwise unmarked stone wall before her meager bower.

It was a sturdy, wooden affair, she found when she had crawled across the floor and felt along it's seam, studded with iron nails and a large round handle, and, much to her surprise, opened at her attempt to release herself from her musty cage, swinging outward with a clack of its locking mechanism (unlocked...? What sort of prisoner was she to be if she wasn't even kept in check?) and a creak of unoiled hinges.

Golden light spilled into the small room, almost blinding her with its glow, and she sat blinking on the floor for a moment, too stunned and confused to do much more than stare about her (stars, the floor was filthy... was this a closet? The floors beyond the room weren't much better, streaked with grime and gathered dust and the filled with the piercing, sharp scent of iced over mud, but at least they were lit) before standing, shakily and cautiously, and peeking out of her prison, staring up and down the hallway she had revealed in her exploration.

It was as bare as her accommodations were, not a single tapestry nor rug in sight to ease the chill that seemed to radiate from the stone bricks and dark wood ceiling; only a steady procession of fluttering, smoke stained lanterns marked the expanse of walls and doorways, occasionally spaced by an iron barred window.

At least the fire within the lanterns was warm, the flame seemingly magical, as it appeared to exude no smoke and had no oil source, and she lifted one from its sconce to deposit inside her room (maybe, if she was forced to come back to it, the little room would be warm) before, with unease, an unhappy look at the clothing her captor had gifted her (made from what was surely burlap sacks and stitched so messily it was already falling apart; it covered her, but not comfortably, and if it came undone anymore than it was now, it wouldn't be covering her for long), and just as much caution, she set out into the hall to explore a little, trepidation chilling her deeper even than the shrill, cool air leaking through the cracks in the clouded glass of the barred windows.

Perhaps she could find a way out of here, or at the very least find out what sort of person had captured her after she had been left to die in the snow and ice.

It was dark beyond the walls of the castle, veiling any possible surroundings from her sight when she attempted to peer through a few of the windows (was it night, or was it always dark in this part of the Underworld?); looking into the various rooms revealed nothing more than the windows did, every single one of them bare to their dust and cobweb filled corners. The hallway led only to another, and another beyond that, and none of the rooms she searched through contained anything more than a collection of beaten, weathered furniture, a few books so water damaged she couldn't begin to attempt to read them, and, once, a coat rack that she mistook for a personage and almost damaged her throat shrieking in surprise at.

The place was a maze, empty and, seemingly, going on forever; she could make no rhyme nor reason of the place, and, soon, began to doubt she would find anything of value at all, as she turned her seventh corner and was met only with yet another long hallway, the lanterns on the walls winking almost mockingly, the piercing breeze a breath of harsh laughter. What sort of castle would be set in the meandering way this was (something of this size _had_ to be a castle, it was far too large to be anything but), wandering this way and that, and so utterly bare?

She should return to the room she had originated in. She was likely going in circles, and missing a far larger part of the castle in her growing upset... she should find some way to mark the walls and doors, so she would know where she had been, should she attempt to find a way out again.

She certainly hoped she would be able to find her little room again, she thought as she turned on a bare heel and rounded the corner she had just turned a moment before. Her toes were getting very cold, and the now bare space between her shoulder blades was beginning to ache. Perhaps a little rest, and some food, if her captor found it in their heart-

Frisk halted where she stood, blinking incomprehensibly at the hall she had just returned to. Except, it was no longer a hallway, stretching off into the distance only to meander into another... it was a grand entrance way, a long, threadbare runner lining the way between flickering torches, rusted suits of fiendish, disturbingly contorted armor (each bore a sharp toothed grin, imprinted into the metal, and eyes that seemed to stare), and wilted plants to a large, imposing set of double doors, the dark wood marred by the marks of claws, the bite of weapons, and, here and there, the still present, if broken, shafts of arrows.

...some sort of sorcery was at work here, something she didn't trust in the least. The Condemned were known to be fearsome magicians, wielding great power over the minds of their enemies and their friends alike, capable of mastery over the elements and transmutation and the summoning of eldritch beings beyond comprehension... someone was trying to misdirect her, likely her captor.

Was this place truly as empty as it had seemed, or even as large? Were they forcing her to walk in circles to attempt to keep her imprisoned, to trick her into giving up?

Had she been close to escaping, and the monster that had captured her was trying to throw her off the trail?

Excitement and shrewdness bloomed into being in her heart, for the first time since she had awoken feeling anything but misery and helplessness and the gnawing, endless cold, and she hurriedly turned to reenter the hallway she had left only a moment before, purpose in her steps and surety in her mien. Her people knew little of the ways of magic, beyond the light the stars granted them, but the Seraphim could be tenacious, and she flattered herself in the thinking that, with work and patience, she could outmaneuver the being holding her captive.

...only the hallway she had returned to had, too, become the entrance way she had just left, the torches guttering in a strong gust of wind that rattled the double doors in their frame. The suits of armor creaked in the same gale, their helms shaking side to side in almost muted laughter, and Frisk flushed, staring hard at them as though they were to blame for her misdirection, before turning and, again, charging towards the hallway she had only just left, the lanterns within far more welcoming than the harsh light of the torches.

The entrance way loomed before her again, though, the suits of armor now turned on their pedestals, grotesque, inlaid faces grinning mockingly; the torches, in the heightening wind, flickered and began to die, and the double doors creaked far louder, one wobbling dangerously in its frame before slowly, loudly, inching itself open.

There was no option to run this time. She turned to make a fourth attempt, her fear for her situation and the magic at work freezing her blood in her veins, but the wall behind her, once an etched archway leading further into the castle, was now bare of all but a moldering tapestry depicting the fall of the Condemned, the accusing fingers of the Seraphim pointing straight behind her... to the doors that awaited her.

She was trapped, with only one way forward.

Frisk sighed, reaching out to touch the frayed edge of the tapestry (the faces of the fallen were horrific, woven into monstrous, pained visages), before nodding, turning back to the only recourse now open to her, and walking through the entrance way, the light peeking through the crack the doors had opened beckoning to her, lighting her face in the now darkened hall.

She could feel the suits of armor watching her, as she approached what could very well be her doom, the creak and grind of rusted metal sending shivers down her spine as their helms turned on their shoulders, but she didn't turn to face them, focused entirely on the splintered wood of the grand doors that stood staid before her. She placed a palm against the one that had opened slightly, wondering for a moment if she should try to peek through the crack, before firming her resolve and pushing, as hard as she could, against the the large door.

Whoever it was that was putting her through this maze of a castle, they clearly wanted her to enter this room. Either it would be her demise, or it wouldn't be. She'd face it with all the courage she'd promised herself she would have, when she had stood at the gates to the Underworld what felt like a life age ago.

The door resisted her for a moment, its weight so great that if it fell, it would easily crush her, before inching open further, creaking mightily and filling both the entryway and the room beyond with its groans. She winced at the noise, thinking to shush it before realizing that was futile to try to talk to a door (she must be very hungry, and possibly anemic from blood loss...), and instead squeezed through the space she had managed to shove it open, her roughly woven tunic catching on the wood before she slid to safety.

The door clicked closed behind her a moment later, and with a finality that sank a note of dire trepidation into her heart.

A wave of warmth washed over her the moment she stepped inside, however, bringing a sigh of comfort to her lips and stealing her nervousness from her, at least for the moment; several large, once intricate but now worn and ash covered fireplaces lined the tapestry and high window studded walls of the cavernous hall that stood before her, filling the room with heat so effectively it even dismissed it from the age worn flags on the floor. Rugs stretched across the expanse of the hall, furs taken from the great, nameless beasts whose heads decorated the walls and mantles, and spaced across the grand hall stood towering pillars of carved stone, bearing decapitated statues of, perhaps, former lords of the castle she was imprisoned within and rising to the darkened, arched, chandelier hung ceiling far above.

The hall oozed both great age and once great wealth, and reeked with stark intimidation; everywhere she looked spoke to the grandeur of a fallen kingdom, a slumbering crypt defiled and made into a mockery of the majesty it once held, and the worst of it all sat at the hall's far end, set before the largest of the fireplaces and raised upon a dais.

It was a throne that seemed to be made almost entirely of bones, yellowed and cracked with the same age that the castle itself bore, padded with worn pillows and matted furs. It stood empty, at least for the moment, and she found she couldn't begin to imagine the sort of being that sat astride it, much less wanted to. Her attention was drawn, instead, to the table that stood before the grotesque throne, and as she looked upon the steaming heaps of food, her stomach rumbled, her knees grew weak, and her mouth began to water.

Even across the room she could smell it, the bounty almost sinful in its richness, its offering of sustenance nearly too much to resist. She had never been this hungry before, she could feel the want to try everything on the table winging at the corners of her mind, promising satiation in the basest of ways... but the excess of the desire stopped her in her tracks, a warning in her heart stilling the forward motion she hadn't even been away she'd begun to take.

Such thoughts were steeped in the sins she had been warned to be wary of, that had called to her before but never so stringently... she would need to be very cautious, now that she resided in the land where such things not only dwelt, but flourished, and without the protection that her divinity afforded her she could easily be tainted by them. Gluttony, even in the face of starvation, was a grievance to the stars themselves.

She would take only what she needed, and be satisfied. This much food must be for far more than herself, and she would not deprive the needy.

...unless it was a fallacy as well.

Frisk's eyes narrowed, fixing on the table of food she had, unconsciously, taken another step towards. There was no reason for her to believe this room was any more real than the empty rooms and wandering hallways she had just left, especially the food; the being that was playing with her could simply be taunting her further, offering what she wanted only to snatch it away at the last moment.

She wouldn't give them the satisfaction. She could sit herself on one of these fur rugs quite comfortably until they got bored and gave it up, that was more than-

“gonna stand there all day?”

She jolted so violently that her injured back twinged quite hard, her eyes tearing up even as they swept the large hall, searching for the perpetrator among the pillars and the curtained windows. The voice was unfamiliar to her, deep and carrying despite the weary indolence it bore, and rang with a note of tired humor that immediately raised her hackles and the flush that had fled her cheeks.

Her gaze ran twice around the grand hall, her fear making her heart beat a frenzied tattoo against the back of her sternum, before, with a rush of unwilling realization (of course her captor would be there, where else would they choose to appear), she found the hideous throne at the head of the room now occupied.

A tall, lanky personage, definitely monstrous (she could see the horns from here, sharp spikes jutting from the top of their head like a crown clear as day) and, she presumed from the depth of the voice, definitely male, lay across it with a comfort that spoke of great familiarity with it, long, naked legs crossed over one of the arms and one bared, sallow foot swaying in the air; similarly thrown over the throne's arm was a winding, ivory bladed tail, curling down to the flagged floor and flicking to and fro idly. His arms were likewise at ease, one folded behind his head and the other, strangely formed and gloved with an intricate armband, lazily plucking food from the platter that was laid on his broad chest.

His visage alarmed her most, even more than his sudden appearance or his complete ease on such a despicable seat... it was missing entirely. His face was stripped to the bone, bared teeth parting to accept the grape he popped into his mouth, empty nasal cavity seated above an unnatural, twisted grin. What were surely empty sockets were hidden from her, covered by a sheer black death veil and pierced unceremoniously by the spires of his horns, and as she watched, his slithering tail swept further into the light, now revealed to be segmented, spined, overgrown vertebrae.

His oddly formed limbs and the strange tone of the rest of his bared skin now made sudden, jarring sense... he had no skin at all. He was made of bones, just as fully as his throne. She could see what she had thought to be a strangely patterned breastplate now to be thick, bared ribs, clawed fingers the ivory of a picked clean corpse.

He was a skeleton. A moving, talking, smirking _skeleton_ , currently tearing a chunk of meat from the leg of some unfortunate fowl with his bared teeth.

Frisk's eyes, wide with her stunned discovery, only widened further as a flash of memory washed over her, the same face blandly sucking meat juices from his phalanges staring down at her in the snow, sneering at her cries for mercy as he knocked her to the ground with a single sweep of his arm...

Cold and unmoved as he stepped heavily upon her back and tore her wings, her divinity, and her hope from her with his bare hands, just as easily as he tore a roll of bread apart between his fingers now.

Her mouth dried, her heart stuttering in her chest. She... she thought he'd left her there in the snow, surrounded by bloodstained feathers and the call of the crows. She'd passed out cold as he'd looked down on her, surely surveying his work with pride... she'd assumed she'd been found by another monster, taken far from where she could possibly retrieve her wings.

She, with desperation, surveyed what she could see of his back, assured that he would have taken possession of them himself, to attempt to restore his own removed divinity... and yet, besides the thick fur of his hood and the complex trappings of his dark robes, his back appeared bare.

What had he done with them?

The monster lounging on his throne, apparently weary of her lingering silence and her close inspection of him, at last turned his skull towards her, the veiled expanse of his covered sockets, somehow, just as weighted as though he held her eyes directly.

“didn't anyone ever tell you staring is rude,” he drawled dourly, ripping another piece of bread from the roll he was rending in his hands (crumbs littered his robe and his throne alike, but he seemed to either not notice or not care), and Frisk very, very nearly apologized to him, felt the words on the tip of her parched tongue, but swallowed them down the very next moment, fury at both him and herself filling her peaceable soul.

How... how dare he lay there as though he hadn't utterly destroyed her, reprimanding her for her _manners_.

Instead, she finally allowed herself to tread closer to the raised dais he lounged upon, and the table heaped with food at the same time (it looked even better up close... she couldn't, especially now that she knew who she was imprisoned by, but stars above, her stomach was starting to cramp with hunger...), raising a hand to point at him both accusingly and tremulously, though she attempted to hide the shaking of her hand with all her might.

“You... y-you did this to me. You took my _wings,_ ” she rasped, her unused voice dry and scratching at her throat, and he looked down on her a single moment longer, tail sliding over the stones inlaid around his throne with the rough scratching of a death rattle, before he shrugged, totally unbothered, and returned to his meal.

“yep.”

The wind left her sails entirely, her hand dropping to her side and her mouth very nearly popping open in surprise. He... didn't he care? She supposed she should have suspected that he wouldn't, but... he was one of the fallen. Surely he knew what it had done to her, to have her light taken from her. Surely there was something in him that understood the grievous wrong it was to be robbed of her divinity.

If he didn't... there was no point to her errand here. If the Condemned truly had no conscience, how could they be saved?

She couldn't believe that. She had to have trust in them, that they were more than legend had told, more than the remnants of a war long passed, more than the Demons they had been imprisoned alongside, because of. Her beliefs were not for nothing. They needed her faith as much as she did, after all. She was their only ally, Above.

If not her, then who?

Bolstered and assured, Frisk raised her chin again, as proud as she could force herself to be, and stared down the creature that had taken all but her life from her, dark eyes sparking with the fierceness of her conviction.

“How could you do this? Why did you take them, what have you done with them? Where-” she began to demand, her voice building in volume and ferocity as her tirade stretched, but the monster on the throne cut her off with a raised hand, plucking a grape from the bunch on his plate and holding it up to the light.

“that's a lot of questions there, gonna need you to narrow it down for me.”

Frisk opened and closed her mouth several times in succession, astounded by his blasé demeanor. She supposed it was difficult to maintain any sort of societal nicety when under the overwhelming influence of whatever Demon you resided in the circle of, but did he have to be so _rude_?

Huffing and really starting to regret her decision to halt right beside the banquet table (it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, given the rumble of her stomach, saying nothing of having to attempt to look firm while standing at the foot of a raised platform), she folded her arms across her chest and sent him the first real glare that had furrowed her brow in her existence, the frown on her lips so out of place she wasn't sure she was doing it right.

“Very well. Who are you?” she snapped, jutting out one hip as far as she dared considering the abysmal shortness of the makeshift dress she had been provided, and her temperamental response seemed to amuse him far more than anything, a snort of mirth leaving his nasal cavity and his smirk returning to his face.

“sans, s'far as names go. sloth, if titles matter to you,” he replied without even glancing at her, tossing the grape in his hand into the air to catch in his mouth (his parted jaw and the closer distance between them bared a pair of extremely sharp incisors and a magical, neon blue tongue to her view, sending a chill through her that she didn't dare consider), and she paused for a moment, blinking at the information he had freely surrendered.

Among those Below were two sorts of beings, the Demons and the Condemned, seven fallen, corrupted stars bent to sin and their numerous, formerly Seraphic followers. In the war that had sundered the heavens and the earth beyond living memory, the Demons had attempted to force the rest of the stars, and thus all magic, into their control, lying to their followers and convincing them great power was being kept from them willfully by the devoted and the stars themselves.

To wield their terrible power, the Demons had each possessed one of their followers, the strongest and most closely linked to their vices, and had struck against the heavens and the devoted with all their might.

The Demons had been defeated, at great cost of life on both sides, and were cast into the shadow of a prison created just for them, beneath the face of the earth their selfish battle had destroyed utterly... and the remains of their followers were stripped of their divinity and cast down with them, the Condemned for all eternity despite the lie they had been told, twisted into horrendous, monstrous beings by the misery and wretchedness of their removal from the light.

It had been thus for countless centuries since, the Seraphim blessed by the light Above and the Condemned damned to the darkness and the servitude of the Demons that had dragged them down Below, confined to the circles of magic each Demon controlled.

This monster was a clearly a thrall of indolence, under the larger control of the lord that the Demon Sloth had now possessed... which meant she was still in the first circle of the Underworld. She had only just passed through the gates Below, wandering the wild and wintry forest she had become lost in, when the monster before her (Sans... he must be a very high ranking thrall under his lord, to have such a palace to his name) had accosted her, and she hadn't been entirely sure where she had been taken, how far from her intended path she had been thrown off.

Not that it mattered much, while she was stripped of her power...

Shaking her head to push the thoughts that immediately swarmed her away (what if he asked for more than she could give to have them returned to her? What if he had destroyed them?), Frisk pressed on, firming the fold of her arms and the narrow of her gaze.

“And your purpose?”

This earned an outright chuckle from him, his face turning back to her and his smile stretched fully across his face. Another grape he had been tossing to himself thudded to the floor behind him, but he paid it no mind, his posture shifting so he sat just a little more upright, the plate formerly on his chest moved to the seat of his horrendous throne.

“purpose? ha... 'spose i'm your warden, since you're gonna be sticking around awhile,” he provided in lieu of another, shorter chortle, swinging the clawed, bare foot thrown over the arm of his chair with lackadaisical idleness (he was watching her far more closely now, from his changed position, she could practically feel his hidden gaze burning the side of her face), and at his assertion, she bristled, clenching her hands on her folded arms so hard it hurt.

So he confirmed it. He intended to keep her prisoner here, for one reason or another. She would not entertain the notion. She had a mission to see to, a duty to attend and an entire race of people to save. She would be held up no longer by him and his caprice.

“I will not be caged. Return my wings to me at once,” she demanded hotly, her entire body trembling with the fierceness of her welling emotion, her eyes stinging as she held back a wash of furious tears, and flushed indignantly when he laughed openly, a note of jeering cruelty entering his amusement as, with a grunt and what looked like monumental effort, he sat up fully on his throne, his thick tail slithering onto the seat with him but his leg remaining as it had been, his repose giving all the appearance of reclining royalty.

His smile glinted with an edge of barbarous surety, one of his clawed hands reaching out for a crystal goblet of what could only be wine. He drank deeply, yet never moved his veiled gaze from hers, tapping the fingers of his free hand on his bared knee and swirling his goblet, once he had had his fill.

“or what,” he all but purred, the tips of his fangs reddened by his drink (she could see his derisive grin over the lip of his cup, and it only infuriated her more), and she stiffened, her confidence shriveling like leaves under a flame. Or... or what? What could she possibly do but ask for their return? She had no power anymore, she was little more than human as she was...

...and he knew that. He was taunting her, his smirk and the silent chuckles shaking his broad shoulders bore witness to all that his tone and his words did not, and she inhaled heavily through her nose in an attempt to calm herself and the thunder of her heart, furiously trying to keep her nervous hiccups and her angry tears at bay.

“You- you mock me.”

His grin spread wider, cruel and unapologetic.

“yeah. gonna have to get used to that.”

This was infuriating. He wasn't chagrined in the least by her calling him on his game, only, if possible, smirking more widely and mockingly, and she stomped her bare foot before she could stop herself, her enraged tears escaping her control to streak her flushed cheeks, flying from her lashes in diamond bright drops to litter the stone at her feet.

“I am not jesting! Return them to me!” she nearly shouted, hoarse and shaking so badly she was certain her soul would vibrate right out of her chest, and Sans, chuckling into his glass, only tsked his tongue against the backs of his bared teeth, his tail flicking at the foot of his throne like a cat toying with its prey.

“why.”

Maybe she should throw something at him. It would make more of an impact then trying to talk to him was doing, and to be honest, the heavy platter of sausages was starting to look tempting, in more ways than just satiating her hunger. Maybe he'd even bother to dodge, though that was asking a lot of a sloth thrall.

“Why- they belong to me, that's why!” she insisted, her fists clenching at her sides and her chest heaving, and his laughter was so pronounced now, so carrying and full, that he spilled some of his wine on himself, his nasal ridge crinkling and the edge of a sharpened canine baring itself.

“so?” he queried uncaringly the moment he calmed himself enough to speak, setting aside his wine and wiping lazily at the stain on his rib cage with his bare hand, and Frisk could only stare, breathing heavily and blinking through her tears.

Surely... surely he wasn't so absent to morality that he couldn't see the wrong of what he'd done...

“You can't-” she began halteringly, swallowing at a ball of nervousness welling in her throat (could... could it really be that he didn't care at all? She would fall without her light, she would be Condemned as well, lost to her sins... was there truly no empathy within him?), and at her assertion, his amused smile faded, his posture reclining so he looked down the line of his nasal ridge at her from on high, cool detachment in his demeanor.

“can't _what_? do whatever i want? i assure you i can,” he promised her, tapping a single finger tersely against his exposed femur, and Frisk sniffled against her overwhelmed senses, his stern, cold visage blurring through her tears.

This wasn't going how she thought it would at all... she hadn't had a backup plan, what was she supposed to do...

“B-but...” she stammered, lost and draining of all the fight that had possessed her only a moment before (she felt like a candle in a rainstorm, her flame flickering and guttering under the onslaught of the elements), but he scoffed before she could even fully form a thought, his upper lip line curling in curt dismissal.

“do you not realize where you are, angel? do you not know what i am? or did you wander into the underworld unaware, pretty little head full of clouds?”

His demeaning rebuttal cut her to the quick, lowering her head and abashing her nearly into fleeing entirely, to attempt to hide herself from the taunting beast astride his throne.

Of course she knew where she was, and with whom she spoke. She... she had hoped, in her heart of hearts, that the thralls Below would at least be a little reasonable, would be more open to the thought of being redeemed of their sins and throwing off the shackles of those that had deceived them... but if the disparaging, biting discourse of her captor was any indication, there was no chance of that.

Had her desire to help them truly been in vain?

“I-I... I am aware,” she murmured quietly, humiliated and bereft of explanation beyond her fragile, fractured hope, her heart quailing beneath the incontrovertible evidence that she had, truly, been mistaken (if she couldn't move the heart of a common monster, how could she hope to convince a demon lord, much less all seven?), and upon his throne, Sans snorted, gesturing to her with a lazy wave of his hand.

“then you know your precious rules and laws and morals aren't worth a damn thing here. you had something i wanted, so i took it. end of story,” he finished bluntly, brazen and candid as he again took up his goblet to drain it, attention moving away from her and back to his meal now that she no longer amused him, and she could only sniffle quietly in response, hugging herself tightly in an attempt to keep from falling apart altogether.

The hollow coldness was creeping into her soul again, the darkness nipping at the edges of her mind... despair as bitter as the wind that beat against the high windows of the hall, that flickered at the flames on the grand hearths, and as piercingly cold as her captor, chilling her to the marrow of her bones in an instant and all but shattering all that remained of her hope.

What did she have to cling to, but the purpose she had given herself? It was what she had devoted her soul to, what she had pitted her status in the heavens against and her very life on. Without it... she may as well fade into the hells with the rest of them.

“What are you going to do with them? You will not bear them yourself?” she asked numbly, wiping at her cold, wet cheeks with the back of one hand, the other digging its fingers into the rough, inadequate fabric of her shift, and he didn't even spare her a glance as he discarded his now empty cup onto the rug surrounding the foot of his throne uncaringly, stripping a strand of meat from a larger piece with his fingers.

“does it matter? you're not getting them back.”

She... she supposed that was true. There was clearly no point in attempting to bargain with this beast, he didn't care a whit for her plight, and obviously had no intention of sharing his plans. She may as well quit the place, since she now knew how hopeless it truly was to regain her holiness...

Perhaps there was still a way she could help the people Below without it.

The thought ignited a spark in her soul, soothing the pain of loss and the hollow of her fleeting hope. Yes... the light of the stars was the greatest of her powers, certainly, but she was still able of body, and willing of heart. Her want to help these creatures was not moved by her captor's heartlessness, by the removal of her wings and her divinity; perhaps it would only be strengthened, proving by earnestness the purity of her desire to free them of the bonds of the Demons and bring them back to the light.

All was not lost. She had nothing left to lose now, and everything to give of herself, and let out a heavy but determined huff of breath, raising her head again to stare down the reclined form of her so called warden.

He had no reason to deny her this. She would only be a burden to him to provide for, and the last thing a thrall of Sloth would desire was more work to do.

“Then release me. You have what you want, let me go,” she reasoned equably, gesturing, with a pang of lingering loss, to her bare back, but Sans, stuffing his mouth with the meat he had peeled from the hank on his plate, only snorted at her blithely, speaking shortly through the mouthful of food he had without care as he worked to carve away more with his claws, not so much as glancing up.

“nah.”

Frisk's hands dropped to her sides, listless and bereft.

“Why not? I have no power in my state; you took my wings, and removed my holiness with them. I'm no more than a mortal being now. I'm no threat, and of little use to you,” she explained exasperatedly, her brow furrowing and her voice rising again in her confused ire (what did he mean, 'nah'? There was no reason to keep her here any longer), and, at last, his face rose, his weighted, veiled gaze meeting and holding hers meaningfully.

“mortals have their uses too,” he divulged, a slow smile spreading across the ivory of his bared bones, and with its climb came a dire realization that Frisk hadn't spared a thought for since she had descended into the dark, sure of her power in defending herself from the forces of sin.

She _did_ have more to lose than her life, than the light that had been taken from her and than her wings, the only way she could escape these fell caverns, and with the monster before her's carefully chosen words, the fear for it returned full force, panic and soul deep terror crippling her in an instant, robbing her of the hunger that cramped her belly without a trace. The sin of the flesh was a rampant one, in the darkness of the Underworld, and thus far in her life, she had clung to her purity, awaiting the day she would marry and spend the love of her body in the most holy way.

The thought of having that stolen from her as well, stripped of all her virtues but what she could hide away in her very soul, froze her to her core, her hands grasping desperately at the inadequate covering he had replaced her robes with (was this his intent, in forcing her to wear something so revealing and threadbare?) and her knees crumbling, collapsing her to the ground at the foot of one of the pillars.

She whimpered helplessly, tears again rising to her lashes as she cowered on the ground, her entire body trembling in earnest, despairing fright.

“N-no... no, you _can't._..” she plead in a desperate whisper, a sob choking her words even as she spoke them, and for the first time, the being that lorded himself over her was struck speechless, stilling and watching her retreat from him with a wrinkled nasal prominence and a clearly confused frown playing about his mouth.

Realization struck him only a moment later, though, a scoff and a shake of his head giving her pause.

“oh calm down, angel, i didn't mean it like that. lust isn't my vice, i'm not as desperate as those freaks. besides, you're a nice looking little wingless dove and all, but guessing from the fuss you're making, you aren't exactly willing,” he alluded, gesturing at her with one hand while the other pulled at one of the tails of his robe, loosing it enough to wipe his mouth and his greasy fingers on, and Frisk, left blinking in the wealth of her surprise (could... could he speak truly?), let out a terse, humorless laugh, breathing haggardly as her anxiety settled.

“O-of course not!” she affirmed hotly, scandalized at the very suggestion, and he shrugged in response, finishing “cleaning” his hands (his manners and hygiene were _horrendous;_ she balked slightly as she watched him picking between his teeth with a long claw, his dirtied, grease streaked robes dropped away and forgotten at his side) and tossing his plate into one of the nearby fireplaces so he could lounge across his throne again, stretching with the idle drowsiness of a well fed cat bathing in the sun.

“so that's a pass from me. you change your mind, you know where i am, but otherwise...” he trailed off, crossing his long legs and yawning widely, and Frisk, from where she had collapsed to the ground, cautiously let the height of her former pique settle, her breath evening out and the thunderous beat of her panicked heart slowing in her chest. She had fallen halfway onto one of the large furs that covered swaths of the stone floor, and slowly crawled the rest of the way onto it, settling with her back to the pillar behind her and her eyes on the relaxing monster.

He... he appeared to be sincere in his words, making no move to force himself on her or to make her come to him... it could be a ruse to gain her trust, but for a reason she couldn't name, she doubted it. She caught herself admiring his clemency for a moment, considering the times he had cited her attractiveness and the benign offer of his bed should she desire it (not that she ever would, of course), but snapped herself out of the line of thinking with a shake of her head. Just because he wasn't a total brute and had said she was pretty did _not_ mean he was a decent person, much less anyone she would _ever_ consider to be her chosen.

Her presence here in the first place attested to the despicable nature of his soul, the ache between her shoulders testifying to his unabashed malice. His sparing her his touch and the defilement of her body didn't win him any points.

She kept her silence for a long moment, forcing down the panic that rattled about in her mind (what if he was lying? What if it's a trick?) and watching the light of the fires flicker across the stone floor, and he didn't break that silence, his tail twitching every once in awhile and his bare ribs rising and falling in the ease of his repose. She would have thought he was asleep, but for the assurance she felt that he was far too clever to expose himself to the potential danger of her attacking him, and after a time, spoke aloud the wonderment on her tongue, residue of the upset of only a moment before.

“Then... what do you want with me?”

He stirred slightly, as her soft voice broke the quiet of the grand hall, his clawed feet flexing and his spine curving upwards, his robe falling about him in his leisure and baring the upper curves of his pelvis (she averted her eyes, blushing for a reason she couldn't fathom) as he stretched comfortably.

“at the moment, entertainment. i've been bored, and thought you'd provide some sort of distraction,” he replied lazily, a hand rising from behind his head to scratch at the thick, spined base of his tail, and in the wake of her much more dire fear, she felt almost grateful for the near tameness of the reasoning, curling her toes into the surprisingly soft fur of the carpet she had settled on.

Compared to becoming an unwilling bed mate, being a curio for his boredom seemed a blessing.

“And when you tire of taunting me? What then?” she pressed, folding her arms around her knees and resting her chin on the tops of them, and was utterly unsurprised by his nonchalant shrug, returning his hand behind his head to pillow his horned skull against the arm of his throne.

“eh. who knows. i'll figure that out later.”

He seemed disinclined to continuing the conversation, far more concerned with settling himself among his stained pillows and dirtied furs, and honestly, she could think of nothing else to say that he would not mock her for. He had dismissed every one of her arguments, disparaging her intelligence and even laughing at her in some cases, and denied her all her requests... she wasn't sure what more there was to be done here.

Would he let her leave? He seemed more interested in settling in for a nap than in her at the moment, perhaps he would...

She turned to glance back at the double doors she had entered the hall through, her gaze traveling over the hall as she did. It was an intriguing place, far more interesting than the halls she had passed through along the way... it seemed to exude an ancient history, one she couldn't begin to fathom, and she found herself standing to go to the nearest fireplace, tracing her fingertips along the etchings of rune-like words inscribed on its mantle, the rugged, carved faces of bellowing warriors and the hulls of great ships breaking mountainous waves.

The tapestries likewise told stories she had never heard, of the lives of humans from before the time of the Demons and the ruin of their people, of their worship of the Seraphim and their own reverence for the stars. Each was more stunning than the last, moldering and covered in dust as they were, and she had nearly rounded the entire hall before she turned to the monster on his throne again, her fingers tracing the name of a forgotten king at the base of his headless statue.

There was so much knowledge here, and she couldn't grasp any of it.

“What is this place? I've never heard the like of it, among my people's writings,” she enthused, her bright eyes rising to the cavernous peaks of the roof far above (the woodwork was so intricate and well inlaid that it had not budged under the test of time, strong as the trees it was made from), and Sans turned on his throne, facing her on his side as though to observe her in her explorations.

“you wouldn't've; the seraphim only preserve records of their own achievements. it's a fortress from the old world. part of my circle,” he droned, raising a hand to inspect his claws idly, and Frisk nearly choked on her breath, her heart thudding to a stop for a long, tense moment before rising to a gallop, her vision tunneling as she stared at him incomprehensibly.

“ _Y-your_ circle?” she gasped out at last, her mind whirling in circles that she couldn't seem to keep up with (what could he mean, _his_ circle? The circles of the Underworld belonged to the Demons and the lords they possessed to preserve their corrupted light, he couldn't possibly be...), and he raised his veiled gaze from his claws, his mouth tilted quizzically in a look askance.

“why're you surprised? i told you my title.”

Frisk could only gape, an echoing buzz manifesting in her ears as she attempted to comprehend the situation. Sure, yes, she recalled him telling her that he was sloth, but she hadn't for a moment thought... she had been told the demon lords would be nearly _impossible_ to reach, protected by their enthralled and embroiled in the satiation of their Demons' vices.

How was it, then, that she had come upon one alone in the woods, and stood before him now in a wintry fortress that seemed completely abandoned but for he and her?

“...yes, but I had thought... then you're not a thrall, you... you're one of the lords of the Condemned. You bear the demon himself in your soul. You _are_ Sloth,” she uttered in a hushed mutter, her hands useless weights at her side and her numbed mind ticking at a snail's pace, and Sans, letting out a huff of bald amusement, made an exaggerated motion with the hand he had been inspecting, a mocking effigy of a bow.

“that's what i'm told,” he supplied, his tail curling around one of his legs idly, and suddenly, so very much of his behavior made sense. His lounging, his putrid mannerisms, his weariness, the droll hum of his voice, his utter lack of care. The Demon that possessed his body fed off such things, demanding them to keep the sin of ennui satisfied and the spirit of the corrupted star content within him.

Many other things were left unanswered, such as what had roused him from his duty to his Demon to walk the woods in search of a pair of wings the fallen star was sure to deny him (were they a gift to the Demon itself, perhaps? Her instincts told her otherwise; why would he linger here if he could escape?), but such things were far from her mind now, slowly awakening to the opportunity that had been laid before her.

While the Demon within him was pure evil, he himself was most assuredly not so. In all likelihood, the creature had chosen him at the time of its previous host's death, denied him the choice to bear it as all hosts were, and had been forced into servitude to it for the rest of his days. There was a great chance that he resented that, and would hear out her pleas... pity and assist her mission for peace and redemption.

Eagerly, she again approached his throne, her eyes shining and her hands clasped against her chest beseechingly.

“My lord, I... I ask again. Return my wings to me. I came on an errand from on high, you see, to help-” she began enthusiastically, her voice muted and tremulous in her excitement, but fell silent as a harshly amused, leering smirk snaked across his face like a crack across glass, his shoulders shaking again as he clearly laughed at her. Her hopeful smile fell away, a chasm opening in her belly to swallow at the avidity that had bloomed in her heart as his chortles became more audible, glacial and mocking, his chin moving to prop on a closed fist.

“heh... to help us? is that why you're here? did the pretty angel feel bad for the poor, sad sinners and want to _save_ them?” he jeered derisively, his nasty grin stretching to split his face nearly in half, and his free hand rose to dip into his robe for a moment, clearly feeling around for something...

And withdrew from within a stark white, slightly bent feather, splattered with the deep scarlet of dried blood. He watched as he spun the feather between his clawed fingertips, as though admiring how it caught the light, before turning his face back to her, his smile growing to bare the sharpened tip of a canine.

“how's that going for you so far.”

Her breath seized in her throat the moment he withdrew the feather, perfectly aware of where it had come from (her... her _wings_...), her heart aching and her soul crying out in despair, and upon his vicious rhetoric nearly sobbed aloud, her hands, clenched before her, squeezing together so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“You... you don't mean that. You wouldn't have hurt me if your Demon didn't make you,” she insisted through the mist of her tears, forcing every ounce of forgiveness she possessed to manifest itself in the face of fell ruthlessness (he wasn't to blame, there was good in him yet, please, please-), but his cackling laughter crushed the hope in her heart as surely as he crushed the feather in his hand, broken into splintered, almost unrecognizable scraps without flinching.

“he had nothing to do with that, actually... its like i told you. you had something i wanted, so i took it. your pain and your fall mean _nothing_ to me,” he assured her, tilting his hand to tip the wreckage of the feather to the ground at his feet, and Frisk choked on the wretched sob that she couldn't hold back a moment longer, watching the remains of the feather fall to the flagstone steps, littering them with wisps of white and red.

She sank slowly to her knees on the bottom step, reaching out to touch at one of the floating remnants miserably, and felt her heart harden in her chest, her brows lowering into a furious glare. Her eyes raised to his cold, ruthless smile, the hidden expanse of his gaze, and in her fury she spat at the foot of his throne, the saliva splattering against the stained step right below it. It didn't matter that she missed, or that he appeared utterly unmoved by the disrespect.

He didn't care, and now, neither did she.

Or so she told herself.

“You are _cruel,_ ” she snapped, her hands curling into fists on the step before her, her body shaking in her unmitigated rage, and he snorted mockingly, rubbing his fingers together to free them of any lingering clumps of feather.

“yeah, i am. are you really surprised?”

Her sullen, glaring silence told him everything he needed to know, and he burst into laughter again, chuckling uproariously at her expense.

“oh that's rich. were you expecting me to want to _help_ you? rise against my demon and fight for freedom? maybe braid some flower crowns and pet some puppies along the way?” he crooned tauntingly, his tail flicking to and fro in the height of his amusement, and chortled anew when she averted her gaze to her knees, her tears glittering on her cheeks and her heart breaking as her hopes were dashed to ruins before her, shattered like the floating remains of the feather already swirling away from her grasp.

“you _were_. ha... i knew the seraphim were airheads, but this is just too funny. i was right to keep you, you're hilarious,” he cackled breathlessly, swiping his hand over his face in the height of his hilarity, and Frisk's jaw firmed, behind the veneer of her lank hair, her eyes staring blindly through her tears at the knuckles of her hands, clenched on the step before her.

“I only want to make things right,” she murmured quietly, her hand opening to catch a single, snow white quill in its palm desolately, her righteous anger simmering in her belly sickeningly (Wrath was a sin, one of the worst, she needed to calm down-), and Sans, his laughter finally fading, dismissed her claim with a scornful smirk and a wave of his hand, shifting in his seat to look down on her haughtily.

“i honestly don't care. your misjudged pity is your problem, not mine.”

Her hand clenched around the remains of her feather, the stone steps littered with her tears and her shoulders drooping in utter defeat. She was bereft of all but the lowest, most desperate pleas, completely at the mercy of a monster that had none to give, and she turned her gaze to him again, her anger slipping through her fingers like melting snow, impossible to hold and leaving her frozen to her soul.

“Please... my lord, I am begging... I am _nothing_ without my divinity...” she whispered brokenly, weeping at his feet without recourse, and he stared down on her in silence for a moment, tail completely still for the first time since he had appeared to her and chin propped again on his hand, before he scoffed and stood fully from his seat.

He descended the steps beside her as though she weren't prostrated upon them, a beggar in languishing need before his throne, and halted only for a moment, his robes sweeping about his feet, his tail flicking away the last of the feather that remained on the steps, and his mouth a slice of frigid, conscienceless dismissal as he looked down at her, as harsh as the winter storm outside the fortress.

“guess that makes you no better than the rest of us, huh.”

And he left her there, bowed under the weight of her misery and his heartlessness, striding away to the double doors at the end of the hall that opened at a touch of his hand, a gale of wind sweeping through the grand room and extinguishing the fireplaces nearly as one. He paused there, a glance thrown over his shoulder to where she remained at the foot of his throne, and sneered coldly, calling out to her before he disappeared into the shadows entirely.

“you'll find no sympathy here, angel. welcome to hell.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought~ thanks for reading!


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